I Left You in My Bathroom, and You DisappearedYou came over for dinner. I cooked to impress. During the curry, lapping our second glass of petite syrah, you broke the news. Really, I asked, a poet? I felt—incredulity, a twinge of disapproval, but then a rising smugness, culminating in a piqued elitism. I’d forgotten poets today are hot little androgynous animals, sex-edgy, razor-cut dangerous, passive-aggressive fetishists, blessed (or is it cursed?) with the black magic of ejaculating beer-shit, gush, and semen stained sentences into readers’ horrified faces. Beauty is out. Fucking syllables into submission, the way in. I inquired politely, and, No, you hadn’t brought your book with, but you’re the real deal, and you could recite every writhing daisy chain and circle jerk of self-loathing meditation, revelation, and constipation. Page meets stage at the intersection of sage and rage, so to speak, and you’re a batshit crazy, lusty smirk of a live-and-in-person chapbook, perpetual sway of lips and hips and tongue. I divulged my method of leaving provocative reads in the guest bathroom, my own personal, potent way to spread propaganda—selections like: Modern Drunkard, S & M catalogs, Sparrow’s “Yes, You Are a Revolutionary!” Would you mind? You were only too eager to spew apocalyptic, neo-crypto-feminist fourth wave verse while watching my grab bag of friends crap or piss, helping them rub or squeeze one off. Last week my old college roomy, Jeff, pinched you, snuck off with you, my squeaky-tough, tangly-hair, word-porn booklet! (Sure sign he enjoys my taste in literature.) No surprise. Simple, bitter, and buck naked, you speak to a part of us we’ve all tried to kill off, and anyone who remembers painting maniacal pictures only to have teachers snarl “What’s that supposed to be?” would understand the crippling insecurity and diabolical self-consciousness of a dirty, dirty, self-mutilating poet in the bathroom. Jeff invited me over to throw a few down the other day, hinting if I stuck around I’d have to use his can, but things have changed. His fat hands have been all over your pages, his drool on your covers. I can no longer bear to think about his fingers tracing your spine. Seems to me now, poets are only death-soaked moments, and only for giving away. Seems to me now, I’d rather make a coffee table of a novelist.
They’re Watching Sitcoms in Iowa, Larry LevisThe Flag draws one last cartoon breath. Two-dimensional
soldiers salute in regimental dress, swallow their
silver revolver barrels, white-winged bodies
floating up to heaven, in wavy lines.
Arsoned Wall Street tents flap, & smack their lips
at unemployed cops fighting hand-to-hand
with uniformed thugs. Hollywood Boulevard tips.
Street light gathers on a Maytag box that coffins Stuttering
Eddie, the fresh dead drunk.
Bible belts strain to contain America’s swollen underbelly.
Crips & Skinheads crack, sign pig fat contracts to protect
& to serve G.E.’s Board of Directors, AKA, the Senate, USA.
The big clock has struck, spilled its irony licks of blood
in the wind. Most turn against their own. Some run away,
or try to hide, while lyrical hurricane leaves swirl
in ever-widening spells.
President & Disney property Selena
Gomez gives birth to her sperm donor frack-baby, “Lucky,”
during the White House evacuation. Her gunnery-pink
helicopter is hit with artillery fire on take-off.
The Internet is down.
Your teapot is boiling. Electricity just went cold.
[daddy keeps asking*] why does my daughter hit herself
—A transcendental flarf quilt of auto-fill google searches
girls like muscles
girls like cigarettes
girls like bad boys
girls like assholes
girls like boys with skills
why does my arm shake when i eat dirt
why does my mom turn me on
is it called love when someone pees and shits on you during sex
is it healthy to drink your own urine
our pets heads are falling off
why dont women make the first move
why dont women like nice guys
why dont women leave abusive relationships
why dont women fart
why dont women answer when i talk to them on facebook
why does my wife not respect me
why does my wife not want to make love to me
why does my wife hate everything i do
why does my wife blame me for everything
why does my wife want a baby
why does my daughter lie even when it doesnt matter
why does my daughter paint dark circles around her eyes
why does my daughter flip off the camera
why does my daughter cut herself
why are indians afraid of dogs
why are indians obsessed with fairness
why are indians so ugly
why are indians vegetarian
why are indians so racist
when she says i can eat her period
when she says i am out of estrogen and i have a gun
arent you glad you didnt turn on the light
arent you glad i didnt say banana
why cant i own a canadian
dinosaurs were made up by the cia to discourage time travel
urethra franklin is on the fucking radio
whats a girlfriend and where can i download one
my balls are stuck in my xbox
man im hungrier than a muthafucka
man im tired of being right
man im glad im a man